


and her heart beats [in time with the hands of your pocket watch]

by Netterz



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Buckle up everyone, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff, I promise a happy ending, Keeper of Time, Rating for later chapter(s), They're Hopeless, This is gonna be a ride and a half, powers-that-be, they love each other in every universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 19:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17413103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netterz/pseuds/Netterz
Summary: Keeping time will be the death of her....That’s when Lou sees her for the first time—when her heartbeat is momentarily out of sync with the mechanical extensions of herself; when it’s all just a little off-kilter. Sees her slipping through the shadows; sliding between the delineations of the minute hand, just-just in-time with the second-hand; wrapping the hours around her body while she whispers into diamond-laden ears, leaves lipstick smudges on white collars, nicks bills and magpie-treasures and sips bourbon, bending space to her will.





	1. Gaps in Time

**Author's Note:**

> Trying something a little different with this one.  
> Fantasy is /not/ my usual wheelhouse, but it got stuck in my head and writing it was the only way to get it out.
> 
> Thanks for asexualizing (Specialcookies) for making sure I don't go totally off my rocker, listening to me babble on about plot lines, helping get me un-stuck, and generally just being a delight!

It’s supposed to be her birthright. Her destiny, her heritage, her legacy. All that and whatever other crap the greater powers-that-be lay on as thick as the layer of snow they scattered over parts of Canada nine days ago.

It’s not that Lou doesn’t like it—it’s fine. The lights are soft, and things are never unexpected. Maybe that’s why she hates it. Hates the way each tick winds her insides a little tighter; hates the way she sees so much of  _everything_ , but can’t touch  _anything_.  _Breaks_ and shatters for the realization that nobody will ever touch her—not really. Not here.

Her existence is meticulous in the ways that she loves—  
the way the cogs and gears slot together as they turn;  
repetitive in all the ways that drive her mad.

 _Keeping time_ will be the death of her.

Not in the ways that would mean she gets to find a peaceful moment of her own. Just in all the ones that will turn her into a shell, empty and hollow as her father; weathered and grey and echoing through the halls.

 _The shift_  is especially bothersome today—the extra piece of a leap year. The _dialsprings_ don’t like it. They like routine and order. She feels their groan deep in her chest while she forces them into line for an extra turn.

That’s when Lou sees _her_ for the first time—when her heartbeat is momentarily out of sync with the mechanical extensions of herself; when it’s all just a little off-kilter. Sees her slipping through the shadows; sliding between the delineations of the minute hand, just- _just_  in-time with the second-hand; wrapping the hours around her body while she whispers into diamond-laden ears, leaves lipstick smudges on white collars, nicks bills and magpie-treasures and sips bourbon, bending space to her will.

 _She_  shouldn’t be able to do that.  
_Mortals_  aren’t supposed to know how to do that anymore.  
_Unless_ —unless.

  

*

 

It’s hours before she can step away. Leap years are like that—especially finicky. Hours before she’s sure the gears will stay aligned for their full rotation, and by then she’s almost convinced herself she didn’t see what she saw at all. But if there hadn’t been anything to see, she  _wouldn’t_  have seen it. That’s the thing.

But when she finally can take her hands off for a little while, when the gears have settled back into themselves, she circles down the staircase. Wanders through the labyrinth of stone walls and plush carpets, follows the light from brass wall sconces, to the library. With all the dead philosophers upstairs one would think the place would be busy. As it is, there’s never anybody else around but Lou. _Philosophy is for the living_.

She knows there was something here, God, years ago. Knows she came across it during her studies—is sure of it. It takes her an hour meticulously rooting through the _annals_ , wishing she could tear the books off the shelves, the pages from their bindings until they’re confetti falling around her. Not like anybody would be likely to ever notice if she did, with the frequency anybody else comes in here. But nonetheless.

 _Weavers_.

And there it is.

_Benders of time: With the turn of the century and science finding favour with the elite, their craft came to be thought of as witchcraft._

_Most prominent of these bloodlines were the Ocean’s, blazing through space and time; leading  revolutions; earned their name and note for the way they bow time out in waves—the space between minutes crashing over in their regular intervals making the bends almost indiscernible to even the trained observer. The Becker’s followed behind; never as powerful, equally as cunning._

_Slowly, the_ Benders of Time _were chased underground, eventually dying out.  
None have been seen in millennia._

And yet—and _yet_.

 

*

 

Lou learned to be alone a long time ago, right from the beginning, really.  
She’s never known anything else.  
That makes it easy.  
Or, it makes dreaming of anything else abstract.  
And _abstract_ is easier to push to the back of her mind than _concrete_.

It isn’t a bad place to be on her own, all things considered. The tower is hers, and hers alone, with its deep mahogany floors, and fan-vaulted ceiling, walls made up of the cogs and _dialtrains_ , weights and counterweights that keep _everything_ turning on the right axis. She likes the floor-to-ceiling windows too. Can see for light years into _light years_ reflecting off the gleaming brass of the gears and shimmer around the room.

She can’t see Earth all the time. Which makes it even easier. Can only see through the space between _where_ and _there_ when things _there_ don’t quite align the way she’s set them; when something pushes back against the rhythms she keeps. She feels the dissonance deep inside her chest, her lungs, her legs. Feels so, so heavy until she can set them right again.

She watches _her_ , and that’s fine because she can’t see her all the time and so it doesn’t distract from her work.

Mostly, Lou can see her at night, in high- _high_ heels, and red lips, and short cocktail dresses weaving through back alleys and side streets, in and out of back entrances and emergency exits and the inhales between moments, lit up by neon signs.

Time is more malleable when the sun isn’t up—always has been. The cover of dark makes things more fluid, less linear. It isn’t something humans imagine—the blurred edges and hazy shadows. Lou sees her most clearly during the midnight _shift_ between days; sometimes at noon’s _reset_ , but only her outline, just the shape of her. Just the way she holds her paintbrush with a loose hand; long, dark, hair almost- _nearly_ piled on top of her head; eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The way she’s on her own—almost always. The way her painter’s shirt hangs off of her with rolled sleeves, otherwise her hands would disappear entirely in the length.

She knows it’s _her_.  
And she knows she’s _beautiful_ with barely-tamed brown waves falling from their twist, halfway down her back, and scandalous brown eyes, wrapped up in flannel and moments and pure willpower.

 

*

She’s curious.  
So, Lou watches.

Watches the way _she_ seems to push her body to the brink of utter exhaustion—falling into her bed still wearing her make-up, heels scattered across her bedroom floor. Wonders what she looks like waking up; wonders if she drinks coffee; wonders if she ever really sleeps at all but she can’t see those things because they fall into the lines that time creates for them.

So, she watches what she can.  
For now it’s enough.

Honestly, she’s been by herself for so long that she isn’t even sure her voice still works.  
Isn’t sure she remembers how to use it.

The pressure in her chest bubbles in the way she’s become accustomed to after _shift_ one night.  
The time between 1:45am and 1:46am bending out, second ticking in their usual place, and she sees _her_ weaving through the seconds crashing down in-time— _an Ocean_ —and then bending just a little further, a steady hand reaching through the new space to pick an over-stuffed wallet from the pocket of a smarmy trust-find boy in the dark corner of a club in Brooklyn called _Nine's_ that has a disco ball made to look like a pool-table ball casting ribbons of orange, and white light around the place. There’s just a little more space than there usually is, and Lou can’t resist.

Slides through the slats into thumping bass, and haze, and sticky floors and bodies throwing off heat. Can smell _her_ perfume coming up behind her.

“I saw that, you know.”  
“Saw?”  
“Yes. _That_.”  
“ _People_ don’t see thinks that aren’t there.”  
“No. _People_ don’t.”

 


	2. Eyes Wide Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Her breath catches in her throat, looking at Debbie looking at her with dark, dark eyes.  
> Somebody sees her and she isn’t quite sure whether she likes the feeling or if she wants to climb out of her skin. She perches on the edge of the mattress and Debbie’s touch is soft when her fingers stroke over Lou’s cheekbones, tuck her hair behind her ear and her fringe out of her eyes.
> 
> “I’ll be seeing you, Deborah Ocean.”
> 
> And she’s gone as smoothly as she appeared."

It's slow and then it's all at once—waking up.

The haze lifts gradually—the feeling of her silk sheets against her skin the first thing that gets through.   
And then it all rushes through her head and she's awake like  _that,_ eyes wide open and flitting about the room. 

She wakes up slow and then all at once and alone in her bed. 

She learned to tell the difference between the way memories and visions feel half a lifetime ago; abstract in different ways. Memories are less reliable than most people want to admit. Would rather not have to think about how twisted things can get inside their head; how much the time of day, and year, and how much coffee they've had to drink can affect how they see something; would very much prefer to pretend those things don't matter. They do though, almost every time. Visions float; sometimes more clearly than memories from years ago, but they're surrounded by haze, subtle as it may be. 

The night before might be a blur, but Lou—the blonde hair, the dark and smudged eyeliner, the sharp cheekbones and jawline, the smirk—wasn't a dream. Giving Lou her name, the way her body felt up against Debbie's back, how soft her velvet jacket was— _memories_. Her mind might have twisted them down into her gut just to untwist the way Lou's hands felt gripping her hips, but they did  _happen_.

She breathes deep; once and then twice and then three times and reaches her hand out through the fog; presses against the seconds and minutes going past. Presses into the bands, leans into the feeling of them pressing back against her; elastic.  Just a little—just a ripple. 

"Good morning, sleeping beauty."

And Lou's there—not a dream at all—leaning in Debbie's bedroom doorway, wearing tight black jeans and a black silk shirt that's half unbuttoned, smelling of smoke and looking like every sacrilegious habit Debbie's ever picked up.

 

*

 

Lou feels the waves Debbie was pressing into time rippling down her spine, pushes away from where she’s leaning against the doorframe, drawn across the hardwood to where Debbie’s sitting up in bed in a thin tank top, sheet pooling around her hips.

Her breath catches in her throat, looking at Debbie looking at  _her_  with dark, dark eyes.   
Somebody  _sees_  her and she isn’t quite sure whether she likes the feeling or if she wants to climb out of her skin. She perches on the edge of the mattress and Debbie’s touch is soft when her fingers stroke over Lou’s cheekbones, tuck her hair behind her ear and her fringe out of her eyes.

“I’ll be seeing you, Deborah Ocean.”

And she’s gone as smoothly as she appeared.

 

*

 

Debbie's eyes are closed as she flips through memories—frames of time in her mind.

She can't move backwards, only sideways—there are defined limits to what she can do—but she does reap the benefits of indelible memories, sometimes a perk of her lineage; other times, one of the worst parts. Searching the albums inside her head until she finds the one of herself at six, peering up at Danny, her older brother, through overgrown bangs, in the fenced-in backyard of the brownstone they grew up living in.

 _"But what if I don't push hard enough? What if I push too far?"  
__"Just, don't do it, kid. There's somebody up_ there _that has to keep track of all of it; Heard he's a real piece of work."_

She was  _raised_  on myth and legend and secrets and learning to read between the lines of obscure texts because none of those secret could be stated explicitly anywhere. Not the ones about her family, and not the ones about what they can do. 

Lou knows who she is,  _what_  she is—Debbie knows she does. But she knows too. Debbie  _knows_. At least, she's pretty sure she does.

Debbie's been alone for a long time, and she'd bet Lou knows that part too—histories and tomes and all that. There are probably things in those records that Debbie, herself, doesn’t know, and other things she doesn't even remember—too young to have been able to see it all for what it was.

All she remembers is that at four years old she couldn’t understand why  _momma_  wouldn't be able to bake her birthday cake the next week, and why wouldn't she be home? Well, she remembers that and how cold her father was afterwards. The way he'd never been warm but seemed to freeze from the inside-out after losing his wife. Stopped talking to Debbie first, and then all but stopped so much as looking at her when the older she grew, the more she looked like her mother. 

He died at some point, she remembers that too; not as clearly as she thinks she should. He left  _everything_  to Danny. Danny, who started taking care of Debbie when their father stopped, and kept taking care of her after their father was dead. Who taught her everything he knew about time and bending it. Who one day bent too far and then he was gone too. Just gone. Folded into the gap he’d created between time and space like he was never there at all. He was though—Debbie knows from the pictures, and all of his things, and the books that she had to pack up into boxes in the attic so she wouldn't have to be reminded about it around every corner. She’s used to being alone. Has been since she was 16; over a decade now.

 She learned the limits of  _just_  how far she could push slowly but surely. Taught herself to bow time out elegantly and reach through the gaps for rent money, pocket change, once or twice knickknacks that she _wanted_  because the likes the way cool stones and metal feel against her skin. But she's always been wary of her limits. Until now. Because Danny was wrong and the person keeping track isn't a piece of work and Debbie think she might really like to see her again.

So it goes. Debbie pushes more than she usually would, more than she  _should_  and she knows it. And each time she presses deeper, rippling a little further, there's Lou. Breathtaking, badass Lou with her fringe in her bright blue eyes, following every direction Debbie leads. She even reaches through the bends once or twice while Debbie holds them open. Only for small things—middle-of-the-night takeout, change for the subway. Debbie would never ask her to get involved in anything bigger. When it's small it's a game, and games are mostly safe, and for some reason she can't quite put her finger on she wants Lou  _safe._ Bigger than _safe_ eats up your life until it's all you can see. It did for Debbie's, anyways.

She goes back to before she learned to do all of it out of necessity, back to when she did it for the endorphins, back to safe, back to games, with Lou around and it's kind of nice. She can't stay small forever, mind, there are bills coming up. But for now it's nice and Lou's arms around her are warm when she's falling asleep wrapped up in them. 

 

 

" _Shit."_

Debbie's a little dazed and a little sandman-drunk when Lou's arms jerk her awake as she shoots up and out of bed, clutching her arm.

"Lou?"  
"I have to go."

There isn't time for Debbie to process the words before she's gone, out of Debbie's bedroom, through the apartment door, long down the stairs at the end of the hall before Debbie even manages to untangle herself from the blankets. Not before she saw  _it_  though, the piece of proof she's been waiting on. The line-drawing of old-fashioned clock hands on the inside of Lou's forearm that would pass for a tattoo to anybody that saw them at a glance, anybody that didn't know ancient lore. Anybody that didn't notice them spinning out of control, seeping red around the edges. 

 

*

 

Lou's arm is burning when she throws herself up the stairs, into her rooms.

How did she miss it?  
How did she lose track of time like this?

Rhetorical—she knows exactly how it happened. She lost track of time when Debbie turned soft, and sleepy, and tugged Lou down into her bed beside her to curl up against her. 

It doesn't take long; nothing irreparable—a belt caught on a cog, and the gear couldn't turn, and once the belt was straightened out it all snapped back into place as though it never happened. It  _hasn't_  ever happened before, not in her time. She'd really prefer to avoid it happening again—hurt like a bitch; the outlines of her  _Timekeepers Mark_  bleeding around the edges, scabbing over now, exposed to the air, now that the hands have stopped spinning.

Then she sees Debbie with her fingers digging into time. Feels those fingertips like they're tracing her spine and can't stop the shiver. But she can't go back either, not now. Shouldn't go back at all. Deborah Ocean has officially impacted her work.

That wasn't supposed to happen.  
  
It wasn't supposed to get this far. Somewhere along the line she went from curiosity to falling and now it feels like she's hit the ground.

She’s tired—so damn tired. _Physically_ tired when she shouldn't be. Immortals don't sleep, don't need to. Mentally spent, spiritually weary—all par for the course. But not tired. Not in body. Immortals also aren't supposed to spend as much time on Earth and Lou has been; aren't made for the weights of gravity and temporality and pollution.

Debbie’s fingers keep pushing. Lou stumbles to the overstuffed leather couch in the middle of the room, burrows into the cushions as deep as she can, squeezes her eyes shut to try to stop  _seeing_.

The problem is she  _can't—_ stop seeing.

Every time something pushes out or in or back on the rhythms she maintains she sees it, and practice has only improved Debbie's skill. At first it's a day, and two, and three before dark eyes flash through Lou's blue ones. Then it's every other day and she can see her shape,  _feel_  it under her palms, remembers how warm Debbie's skin always is. Eventually it's every day, twice a day, every hour and she  _can't_  turn it off, partly because she doesn't really want to. 

Eventually, she can't stay away. Slides through the gaps Debbie keeps tearing into her world to stand in front of her in the living-room studio is her apartment, in the middle of the day, with the sun coming through the sheers, and oil-medium war paint smudged in a line across one cheek. 

"Would you cut it out."  
"I know who are you."  
"You're not supposed to."  
"My brother warned me you'd be a piece of work, you know. Banked on you being a man, though."  
"Ah, right. That would have been my father."  
"Father?"

Lou sighs, tired already, being back on Earth. Leans against the wall opposite where Debbie stands in an over-sized, paint-stained denim shirt, pieces of hair escaping her messy ponytail to fall around her face, the canvas behind her covered in swirls of copper, and deep-bruise purple, and streaks of orange, black skyline lining the bottom edge.

"He's been gone for a few centuries—give or take."  
"How old are you?"

"Too old for you, if I was to be a proper gentleman."  
"Then it's a good thing you aren't a man, and I never said I wanted gentle."

Lou smirks at that. Debbie sets her paintbrush on the ledge of the easel and steps towards Lou; closer—closer—closer—until they're chest to chest, and Debbie lifts and eyebrow, both question and challenge.

"My father—may he rot—had been  _The Keeper of Time_  forever, was supposed to be  _The Keeper of Time_  forever. Mother was some archangel—don't know which one, don't bother asking. And he  _wanted_ her in all the ways that aren't allowed.”

Debbie's hands rest on Lou's waist at the mention of  _angels_ while she waits for Lou to continue.

 _"We do not touch the Archangels.'_  Seriously. It's on a plaque up there somewhere. He used his power to bend time far enough that they could spend a night together. Got caught, of course, she got pregnant—"  
"Even the archangels need birth control."  
"Apparently. She was sent away after I was born and my father was tasked with raising me to take his place, and then made mortal and banished."

 

*

 

"You see everything, all the time?"  
"That would see  _me_  blindingly dizzy, and strung up for heresy."  
"And you're not a heretic?"  
"No."  
"Are you lonely?" 

And it's the first time Lou's put a word to how it feels.

*****

She stays away a little longer this time. In part, she has to. The more time she spends on Earth and more exhausted she gets. Debbie goes a little easier on her this time. Not quite as insistent in her bends; less relentless in her frequency. But she knows Lou can feel it, and she knows she wants Lou, and eventually Lou re-materializes, speaking in breathy whispers into her ear, over her shoulder from behind.

“Did you miss me, Deborah Ocean?”  
“I didn’t want you to be alone again.”

The words catch Lou off guard. Debbie turns to face her. Doesn’t touch her, not yet, because she can see that there’s something else waiting to fall off the tip of Lou’s tongue if she can manage to get it untangled.

“I can’t keep coming here.”

Debbie doesn’t say anything. Keeps her breathing level, her eyes piercing, and waits Lou out.

“I’m not built for it. I’m built for _there_.”  
“So that’s it, then?”  
“You could come with me.”  
“But?”  
“—for a human it would be a one-way trip. There wouldn’t be any coming back.”  
“Lou, baby—”

Debbie steps in closer, finally touches her, cups Lou’s cheek in one hand while the other settles on her waist. Lou pulls away—first a step, then two, then far enough that Debbie drops her hands back to her sides. Allows herself the moments to really _look_ at Debbie. Because she knows this will be too much to ask—doesn’t need her to finish her sentence to know it. Doesn’t want to have to hear it yet. Can’t expect Debbie to give up her home, and her life, and everything she’s known her entire existence.

“I’ll give you some time to think on it.”


	3. Do You See Me Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Debbie tugs Lou's leather jacket on before leaving to meet Claude.
> 
> [...]
> 
> She started wearing it. Because it's a nice jacket—soft, creamy, black leather. Leather that's worn and shaped into all of Lou's curves and Debbie can almost pretend that it's Lou wrapped around her. Can smell her perfume on the lapels and almost pretend she's there if she closes her eyes. Almost-nearly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than I had planned/hoped, but I hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Deborah Ocean."

It's not a question.

Debbie turns away from the bar, drink in hand, to face whoever's disturbing her evening alone.

It's been a long week with no sign of Lou;  
pushing back against time until she's exhausted;  
cold without Lou beside her.

Lou didn't have to go. Debbie didn't need time. Knew what she wanted before the words were even all the way out of Lou's mouth. But she's there anyways: on her own until Lou decides she's given her enough time to make a decision that’s fair to herself. And the man in front of her has a smooth, immodest voice and dark eyes and a jawline almost— _almost_  as sharp as Lou's.

"Who the hell are you?"   
"Claude—"   
"—is that supposed to mean something to me?"   
"If you let me finish, it might; Claude _Becker_."  

That catches Debbie's attention—she may have spent the last decade and a half without them, but her family made sure she knew her history before everything went to shit. Ocean's and Becker's go back—way back. Before Time-Benders-went-underground kinds of back. To her knowledge the Becker line had died out years ago. But there's one right in front of her,  _apparently_.

She can't deny it piques her interest—won't bother trying to pretend it doesn’t, either. The last few weeks have made her restless. She isn't built for stillness. She’s waiting, and waiting, and she'll wait for as long as it takes, but spending her days killing time is monotonous.

So, she sips her bourbon and eyes Claude over the rim of her glass and decides she might not be interested in touching him, or leaving with him, or maybe even ever seeing him again, but bantering for a few minutes might be a nice break.

"I was thinking we might be able to help each other."   
Debbie stays quiet, raises a manicured eyebrow.   
"I have something of a proposition, you see."  
"I'm not interested."

She isn't playing hardball and she decidedly does not want to banter about a _proposition_ ; the only thing she really knows that she  _wants_  anymore is Lou. Lou's fringe hanging half into her blue eyes, and Lou's lips turning up at the corners when Debbie plays her cards just right. 

"Not interested in a painting? I thought you were an artist."  
"A painting?"  
"I assume Van Gogh's  _Shoes_  means something to you. Meet me outside The Met tomorrow morning at 10:00."

He tosses a couple bills on the bar top to cover his drink and Debbie's too, and vanishes into the crowd. And she's still not interested, but she is intrigued by the mention of a painting— _that_ painting. Intrigued and curious about what exactly  _Claude Becker_ , whoever he might be, knows about their family history. She hasn't had much of anything left of her family in a long time. Even missing them has faded to a memory of a feeling—it became a normal part of her life so long ago that she can't remember what it feels like to not have it there, anymore.

 

*

 

Debbie tugs Lou's leather jacket on before leaving to meet Claude.

The jacket Lou left when she lost track of time and her  _mark_  started bleeding and she bolted before Debbie could retrieve it for her from where it was hanging over the back of the armchair in the corner of her bedroom.

When she first discovered it had been forgotten she'd been relieved—a reason Lou would have to come back. But, the more time went on, the more she started to wonder if Lou noticed it was missing, if she cared that it was missing. It was warm enough wherever Lou was that she didn't  _need_  it. At least, Debbie hoped it was warm. She hoped it was warm and soft and all of the things she kept trying to wrap Lou up in, in her bed.

She started wearing it. Because it's a nice jacket—soft, creamy, black leather. Leather that's worn and shaped into all of Lou's curves and Debbie can almost pretend that it's  _Lou_  wrapped around her. Can smell her perfume on the lapels and almost pretend she's there if she closes her eyes. Almost-nearly. 

 

  
*

  
They meander through the European Painters exhibit arm in arm; Claude playing coy like Debbie hasn't figured out exactly what he's up to. She has—pieced most it together before she even got back to her apartment the night before.

She showed up today because she really is just waiting.   
Which, for now, is fine.   
Lou will be back.

Lou will be back and Debbie will get to tell her that the decision was  _always_  her, that she didn't need the time to think about it. _That_ will come. But  _this_  could be fun—a bigger version of the games she loves to play, and the thought of having a Van Gogh in her hands, however briefly, settles deep in her belly.

"I can't replicate that painting, if that's why you tracked me down." She knows it wasn’t just that, but she plays along with being just a little clueless for the sake of the game they're playing—the game she's playing at any rate.  
"I thought you were a painter?"  
“I am. I don’t use his brushstrokes."  
"Ah, right."  
"I have somebody, though. She specializes in reproductions."  
"And she's able to do something of this caliber?"  
"If you want my help, you'll have to trust me."  
"Does she have a name?"  
"Trust."

Not that Debbie completely trusts _him_ ; he still feels a little smarmy and a little entitled, but the thought of holding that oil painting—of getting to tell Lou what it felt like to hold that oil painting when she comes back—Debbie won't give Amita's name to Claude, but she'll call in the favour on her part and get what they need.

 

*

 

The plan itself is good. It lacks the elegance Debbie likes putting into her own work. But, it's good on paper. She'll have to do more of leg work, more of the bending and it makes her smile just a little. Makes her smile to think about the bitter pill it must have been for  _Claude Becker_  to swallow, in all of his attempting-to-be-smooth-swagger, to admit that he wasn't powerful enough, strong enough to bend and hold two points out simultaneously. She likes that she gets to have her fun  _and_  have him admit to himself that _Ocean's_ have the lineage he wants. The only thing she needs from him are the right numbers; the right times and places to reach into. He gives them to her. 

The plan is good  
until it's not.

It's good until his numbers are just a little off, just a little under or a little over and Debbie _feels_  the arches she's holding up crumbling down over her head; the pressure building inside of her and out. Sees flashes of Danny being  _gone_ —just  _gone_. Wonders if she'll see him on the other end of whatever this is, wherever she's going to end up. Wonders if wherever that is, is even some _where_  at all. And she sees Lou—beautiful Lou with her sparkling eyes, and her Time Keeper's mark, and her jawline that Debbie wants to smudge with her lips and her teeth. She wonders if Lou can see her—if she can maybe, somehow see what's inside Debbie's mind. Maybe she'll _know_. 

 

*

 

She wakes up cold;   
chilled straight through. 

Feels grit digging into her thigh where her dress has ridden up, her cheek, the back of her hand before she manages to pry her eyes open.

Smells  _dank_ and concrete and can’t smell anything else.

Wakes up in an alleyway behind the museum, cold and grimy.  
But she  _does_  wake up and she knows she's lucky for that, if nothing else.

She blinks once—twice—three times and then squeezes her eyes shut again.

Wonders where Claude ended up.  
Wonders if he got the painting, if maybe it was worth it.  
Wonders if Lou saw the bends—she must have; must have seen them crumble.  
Prays to someone she hasn't been sure she believes in for years that when she opens her eyes again Lou will somehow be there to haul her back to her feet and tell her she looks like hell.

Lou isn't there when Debbie opens her eyes and she nearly falls right back down the first time she pulls herself up. Stumbles out of the alley, onto the sidewalk. Leans against the side of The Met, looking at the ground, reaches out to bend into time when a group of suit-clad business men pass her without a glance. Just some change for the subway.

Doubles over when she hits time; solid rather than elastic.

The burn blooms through her lungs, ice out to her veins, and she very-nearly retches-out the  _nothing_  that's in her stomach onto the streets of downtown New York.

Walks—stumbles home the long way, the way that’s mostly backstreets because she can’t bend time out for change and she isn’t in any condition to con her way onto the subway.

 

*

 

She falls into bed with her hair a mess, smeared make-up still on her face; needed to wash her sheets anyways, had been avoiding it because that would mean washing the smell of Lou’s shampoo out of the pillow case. In reality it faded-out a week ago, but Debbie could imagine until it was good and truly taken out with hot water and detergent.


	4. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can't do it anymore," the words taste like bile rolling off her tongue. "If that's why you're here."  
> "Can't what?"  
> "Time," she swallows the rest of her drink in a single gulp. "I can't bend it. Anymore."
> 
> ...
> 
> It's a long shot. Debbie knows it.  
> But she has nothing to lose;  
> everything to gain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this took so long.  
> I have no excuse other than grad school applications and the extreme cold making me want to hibernate more than much else.
> 
> I hope the wait was worthwhile.
> 
> Enjoy <3

Inhale three counts—exhale another three. Repeat.

It takes four rounds of measured breaths to feel steady enough to roll onto her back. Another two to open her eyes and move to look down at the state of herself. The motion is enough to send the room spinning and her hurtling to the bathroom. Somehow—just barely—making it to heave into the toilet bowl.

She manages to tug her dress over her head, zipper pull catching painfully in her tangled hair, yanking out the strands tangled in a particularly stubborn knot in the process. Crawls into the shower; sits on the floor, under the spray until it runs cold. Reaches a shaky hand out from under the freezing water to press against the bands she can feel tightening around her. Ends up dry-heaving on the floor again. Stumbles back to her bedroom to tear the linens that are stained with the aftermath of the night before off the bed; runs out of will power before she can get a new sheet on the mattress. Curls up on the hardwood, wrapped best as she can in a blanket, instead, hair in wet tendrils dripping water onto the floor.

Debbie isn’t really sure  _what_  happened—what’s happening.  
Is only really sure of what isn’t—being able to bend time.

And just like that she’s alone the same way she was when she was 16 and Danny left her all of a sudden too.

It takes two days for her to stomach anything other than water. Five to feel hungry. Seven to leave her apartment because it's quiet and it's  _empty_  and that never bothered her before but now she's ready to peel the paint off the walls, let it rip the undersides of her fingernails apart and remind her that she is, in fact, still alive and not floating in some strange place within the folds of time that fell down over top of her.

She pulls on tight jeans and a v-neck t-shirt, and Lou's leather jacket, and it makes her feel a little sad and a little sick to wear it, but the weather really is perfect for it, and it fits her well and she knows it. She goes to  _Nine_ 's, familiar ground. If she sits at the end of the bar, in the corner, nobody will bother her while she has a drink, or ten, or however many it takes to induce a haze that hurts more than the numb. 

"Oh my god, it's so good to see you."

The same voice as the last time Debbie was there speaks from behind her. This time she doesn't turn around. Sets her shoulders and stares into the bottom of her glass, instead. "I thought you were dead—gone." Square shoulders and a sharp jawline slide onto the stool beside her. She spares Claude a sideward glance and the vague raise of an eyebrow. He's not the square shoulders and sharp jawline she wants to see, and she doesn't really have the energy for much, but he keeps filling in the space of her silence. "I don't know what happened—it was all so fast.” It wasn’t fast for Debbie, but she doesn’t say that, lets him keep talking. “It's wonderful to see you."

"I can't do it anymore," the words taste like bile rolling off her tongue. "If that's why you're here."  
"Can't what?"  
"Time," she swallows the rest of her drink in a single gulp. "I can't bend it. Anymore."

 

*****

 

 _Claude_ _Becker_.

Lou's never hated a person before.   
Places, things, circumstances at times.   
Never a person. 

 

She doesn't think she likes it very much. The way her blood simmers, threatens to implode in on her as though the palpable wrenching of her nerves from the shock-waves isn’t bad enough.  
She should find some salt to rub in with it.

 

She nearly reached through the dissipating space. Very nearly hauled Debbie through it; lifted her hand from where it was sliding the belt that snapped loose, back into place. Stopped short.

 

She's never known what it felt like to love somebody, either. She thinks this might be it. And she told Debbie it was her choice, and Debbie made it, and now Lou has to live with that.

 

She collects the gears that bounced from their fittings off the floor, slots them back into place.  
Presses her weight into them, their weight into closing the gap.  
Looks away while the view fades.

 

She doesn't say goodbye.  
Goodbyes means it meant something.

 

*

 

"Try this—" Claude holds out his hand and Debbie can see the ripples forming around it, a little messy; quickly checks their surroundings because he hasn't bothered to make sure they won't be seen. She might be reckless but she isn't stupid. Once she's sure they're in the clear she turns back to find that he's bent out a small opening. He's looking at her expectantly; eyes moving pointedly back and forth between her and the gap. “—go on."

She sets her glass down with a clink; reaches towards the bend slowly. Braces for the shooting pain, the freezing numb, isn't really sure why she's humoring him at all—boredom most likely, maybe tinged with desperation. 

Her hand passes through.

Unexpected.

It passes through and she reaches over the bar top and pulls the bottle of bourbon she's been served from all night over to top off her glass with nobody the wiser.

"Well, that's interesting," the gears in Claude's head turn in his voice. 

She knows she can't trust him— _doesn't_  trust him. She also can't really stomach the idea of ramen noodles or saltine crackers for another meal; is $700 short on rent if she doesn't  _do_  something soon; and Lou's not  _there_. She doesn't know where Lou is. Doesn’t think Lou’s coming back and she can’t blame her. Why would she want a human when she is who she is?  And Debbie might not be able to bend time anymore but she's still smarter than Claude Becker, and she knows it, and maybe she can use that to her advantage.

Then again, maybe she can't [use it to her advantage]. But she's tired. So, so tired. Being on her own used to be fine, and then she spent months remembering what it's like to not be alone.

She didn't used to be this tired.

Claude’s still talking; Debbie’s heard half of what he’s said at best.  
“If you can reach through a bend that I create and hold it open, I can get our families back.”

 

*

 

Lou knows the ripples creeping up her spine aren’t Debbie’s long before they expand into waves and rips in space. They’re too sloppy. Debbie’s bends are clean, precise, neat enough that anybody not looking for them specifically wouldn’t even stop to think twice.

She knows it’s Debbie’s shape reaching through, though. Knows she must be working with  _Becker_. Swallows back the taste of acid on her tongue when she thinks about it. Swallows back the anger too when she realizes just what he’s up to.

He’s an idiot and he’s slimy and he doesn’t seem to understand how time  _works_. That he can’t just manipulate it however he pleases. That there _are_ still  _rules_ , malleable as they may be for some.

She catches bits and pieces of his plan--catches bits and pieces of Debbie going along with it too, and that bring the burn of acid back to her mouth. Lou knows that Debbie knows that Lou can see her when she plays with time. Lou also knows Debbie isn't nearly stupid enough to think it’s a good idea. They can't just pull  _people_  out of a  _point_  that's passed and gone. It doesn't work that way. There has to be leverage; a person can't just be pulled through without trading something back. Leaving a hole in time, even in the past, would be cataclysmic; would literally send space spiraling in on itself. 

What the fuck do they think they're playing at?   
What the  _fuck_ does  _Debbie_  think she's playing with?

Lou toys with the thought that  _perhaps_  Debbie doesn't know what she's toying with.   
Scoffs at herself quickly because she's just making excuses to make it ache a little less; lying to herself so she can feel like maybe Debbie did care--did want to be with  _her_  even if she's with  _him_. 

 

*

 

It's a long shot. Debbie knows it.  
But she has nothing to lose;  
everything to gain. 

Five minutes.

She'd give just about everything for five minutes with Danny. Just a chance to tell him what an  _idiot_  he always was, and that she was so angry at him for  _being_  that much of an idiot, and maybe that she loves him. Maybe. 

When it all goes to hell, because she's smart enough to know that's the more likely outcome, she isn't leaving anything behind other than an apartment she's been meaning to clean, and laundry she hasn't folded, and a bottle of good tequila—she should really remember to drink that before-hand. But maybe Lou will see her--will  _have_ to see her one more time, on Debbie's terms. She's been left by people most of her life; processing it is nothing new. For once, though, she might get to have the last word and going along with Claude's scheme feels just a little worth it under that light. 

 

*

 

She’d expected it to be a lot; had expected to feel the gravity of where they were, but also where Claude was reaching into. She hadn’t expected is to be _this_ heavy; pressing in on her from every side. Hadn’t expected it to hurt this much to hold open a bend that she didn’t create.

The edges are jagged—careless and hurried and unpracticed and slicing into her.

And she can’t hold it.

Debbie tries to catch Claude’s eye, and she does, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop pushing, doesn’t stop reaching deeper into the hole he’s created, doesn’t let up when Debbie starts being pulled in and it dawns on her all at once that this was his plan all along. Dawns on her that he’ll get what he wanted—his little sister and his mother and his aunt, and he’s willing to pay for them with _her_.

She’s somehow okay with that. Takes as deep a breath as her lungs will allow with the amount of pressure against them and opens her eyes wide. Looks for Danny. This is where he went to, too, and she’s not making it back out, not alive, and she’d really like to see him even if it means he’ll know the mess she got herself into.

 

*****

 

Gears are spinning out and dials are cracking and a belt frayed and snapped behind her and Lou can’t move. Can’t look away. Sees Debbie crumbling under the weight of space and time. Sees the rips growing and growing and getting closer and closer to swallowing Debbie up. Sees Debbie fading away with her eyes wide open and tinted with just a little fear and just a little more resignation.

 

*****

 

It takes two exhales for Debbie to force her heart rate back to a normal pace; three to will her hands to stop shaking; four to square her shoulders, set her jaw and remind herself that she’s fine with being finished. That her line wasn’t supposed to survive this long. That the world wanted _Ocean’s_ gone a century ago.

In the calm that comes in the middle of it her mind can almost remember the feel of Lou’s touch on her skin. She lets her eyes close and she can feel those long, warm fingers contrasted by the cool metal of all of her rings.

The pressure stops;  
and the weight gives way;  
and Debbie isn’t cold for the first time in weeks;  
and she opens her eyes to find oversized blues staring back at her.

 

*

 

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?”   
“Excuse me?”  
“You could have _died._ ”  
“What do you _care_?”

“What do _I_ care?”  
“You left me. I couldn’t get to you.”  
“Oh, is that what happened?”  
“You might be alone up, _wherever_ you are. I’m alone too.”

Lou knows her eyes are cold, staring Debbie down.  
She’s angry.  
She’s so damn angry.

Maybe Debbie lost her family. But at least they left her over tragedies and accidents. Lou got left in the rubble of choices that she didn’t get to make. Choices that meant she’d be on her own forever.

Debbie keeps talking whether Lou looks like she wants to hear it or not.

“I wanted you to have to see me. I wanted to know that you wouldn’t just get to forget about it.” 

And Lou’s heart might stop in her chest for what should be a few beats, _still_ ness manifesting in their place.

“You don’t know what he did, do you?”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“It wasn’t in your field of vision. You didn’t see it. I should have realized.”  
“Lou, what the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

There isn’t a great way to say it, she can’t _not_ though, not now. Not now that Debbie’s looking at her like her entire world is spinning out of control and like she can’t take a full breath and like she’s _waiting_ for Lou to reach out and smack her clear across the cheek for not understanding, and Lou softens just a bit.

“He left you to fall into that bend. Swapped the paintings and left you there.”  
“He got the painting?”  
“He did.”  
“You knew he left me? You saw him?” **  
**“Yeah, Deb. I saw it.”

She thought Debbie knew the risks. Thought she knew he was able to get the painting. Debbie didn’t know. Didn’t know that he left her behind, didn’t even know he got the painting, would have no idea that he’d sold it and pocketed the entire profit and left Debbie to hang.

Lou thought she was angry before—with Debbie. She’s ready to go nuclear now and _destroy_ ever fibre of Claude Becker. Debbie’s voice, small and directed at the scuff on the floor that her eyes are trained on, breaks through the _red_ Lou’s vision is swimming with.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Debbie’s in front of her, looking like she might actually cry and Lou has no idea how to cope with that. Debbie’s right in front of her looking at her like she might cry with eyes _begging_ Lou to make sense of things for her.

It hits Lou all at once.  
She _can’t_ make it make sense.  
She thought it made sense.  
She thought she knew what happened.  
But she didn’t.  
And _she_ left _her_.

She opens her mouth to come up with something to say, and snaps it closed again. Realizes where she is, where _they_ are. Realizes that Debbie is outside of Earth and space and time, now, and she can’t go back. Realizes that she just reached through all of the rules, and all of the lines, and the choice she gave Debbie. Has Debbie exactly where she wanted her to be— _with_ her, but at what cost? Watches Debbie’s eyes flit around the room as the same realization that just knocked the air out of Lou takes the wind out of her lungs.

She waits for Debbie’s voice; waits to be cursed at; waits to be damned. Isn’t waiting for Debbie’s hands to grip the lapels of her blazer and yank her forward and slam there lips together.

Lou wasn’t waiting for it, but now she can’t get enough. 

Can’t get enough of Debbie’s hair tangled around her fingers, Debbie’s body pressed up against hers; the way Debbie tastes with her tongue in Lou’s mouth.


	5. Please Don't Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Doubt that the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar—”  
> “—but never doubt I love.”
> 
> ...
> 
> Lou burrows into Debbie’s shoulder, presses herself against Debbie this time, licks out—lazy—when she can’t quell the desire to taste. She’s been watching the world for half of forever; she knows it all works, knows what makes her own body rise and fall. Is overwhelmed with the idea that somebody else would want to do that for her—make her feel. Nods her head. Finds her words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should know better than for make projections for how many chapters my stories will end up being at this point--definitely four for four with going long.
> 
> I really thought this would be the wrap-up, but once I got into it there was just too much to cover.  
> So six parts instead of five it is.
> 
> Thank you to the moon and back to everything who had been reading along, commenting, and leaving kudos!

Debbie’s hand snakes up the back of Lou’s shirt—deep purple silk loosed from black waxed jeans—traces up her spine, tracks around her ribs, dances her fingers over Lou’s stomach. She tastes like smoky bourbon and mint gum and she’s got her fingers tangled in Lou’s hair and Lou’s the one to break their lips apart. Takes a half step back, hands on Debbie’s waist, looks into her eyes searching for something that doesn’t exist.

Debbie cocks her head to the side, chews her bottom lip a little, meets Lou’s over-sized blues and tries to figure out where she’s at. Takes Lou’s face in her hands, cool palms against warm cheeks.

“Don’t you know that I want you?”  
“Doesn’t mean you wanted to give everything else up, too.”  
“I don’t have anything but you to give up, Lou.”

Lou lays her hands over Debbie’s where they cradle her jaw. Turns her head a little, breathes her lips against the pulse point on her wrist. The confession that comes next is quiet spilling out of her.

“I knew who you were before you met me.”

Because she wants Debbie, too. Doesn’t want to try to lie to her for the moment, or for forever, and forever is the increment of time they’re working with, now. Pulls Debbie’s hands away from her skin, squeezes them in her own before letting go, turning, moving towards the door, out of the room. 

Inclines her head asking Debbie to follow.

And Debbie does—what else would she do?  
What else would she  _want_  to do?

Follows Lou through the doorway where the plush ivory carpet turns into stone stairs.

Down-down-down.  
   
Spiralling around-around-around. Past a landing with a closed door that has soft light shining from the crack underneath. Down again, more stone stairs that seem to bleed warmth instead of the cold she’d been expecting.

Down a hallway lined with wall-sconces that snap into light when they walk by.

Down-down-down until Lou stops at a set of wooden double doors, turns the handles, leans her body weight into tossing them open and Debbie freezes standing in the middle of the entry way to the new room. Freezes on the edge of Persian carpet, and vaulted ceilings, and walls lined with dark wood bookshelves, and sliding ladders, and an unlit stone fireplace in the centre of a far wall.  
Row upon row of leather-bound, fabric-bound, paper-bound spines.

Lou stays quiet, smirks a little, lets Debbie take in her surroundings uninterrupted because maybe she threw the doors open the way she did in interest of dramatic effect.  _Maybe_. Debbie’s footfalls don’t make a sound stepping past Lou, moving across the room, fingertips running over spine after spine.

Philosophy to theology to the death and resurrection of God—gods—god, to the rise and fall of eras and empires, through ancient names she couldn’t pronounce if she tried. All filtering through her mind at rapid pace, overwhelming without a touchstone, to—

Debbie halts all at once. Pulls a small, paper-bound packet from a shelf she has to stretch to reach. Card through the pages and—

 _“Doubt that the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar_ — _”_ _  
__“—but never doubt I love.”_

Lou steals the finale from Debbie’s lips, startles her a little with just how close she's come up behind her without her noticing, watches with sharp eyes as Debbie examines the paper in her hands—yellowed and tattered and covered in spiky script.

“Is this—”  
“—Hamlet. The original manuscript.”

And the light in Debbie’s eyes crackles when she meets Lou’s gaze with a raised eyebrow.

“How did you get this?”  
“What’s the use of  _keeping time_  if I never exploit the perks?”  
“And here I thought I was the one stealing  _your_ virtue.”  
“I might surprise you yet, Deborah Ocean.”  
“You  _are_  too old for me, aren’t you?”

Lou nearly kisses her again. Nearly tosses out the reasons for coming to the library at all in favour of feeling Debbie’s lips against her own again.

Doesn’t.

Turns a little darker, a little somber. Steps away from Debbie and across the room to another set of shelves entirely; scans the titles until finding what she’s looking for, pulls a leather-bound, thick-spine’d set of  _records_  out. Flips through the pages until she’s two thirds the way back, eyes scanning the page, moving back towards Debbie, holding out the open book.

“I saw your brother when he—”

Debbie nods a little nod; takes the book from Lou’s hands; doesn’t say anything—starts to read halfway down the page where Danny’s name catches her eye in slanted script; sits down ungracefully on the sheepskin in front of the fireplace that’s never lit. None of it does anything to calm Lou’s nerves. All things considered she probably owes Debbie the time to process. So, she sits down beside her, holds her weight with locked elbows, the heels of her hands digging into the plush rug underneath them, stretches her legs out in front of her, ankles crossed; doesn’t complain when Debbie tips sideways to lean into her, eyes never leaving the pages Lou opened for her.

 

*

 

Lou brushes the hair that’s fallen over Debbie’s face away, tucks it behind her ear. The book is still clutched tightly in her hands; head resting in Lou’s lap; tear tracks down her cheeks; fast asleep.

Lou’s been waiting to move for a half hour—didn’t want to risk disturbing her. But time doesn’t slow, not even there, not even for her, and she has things to do upstairs. Gathers Debbie up carefully.

She can’t be entirely sure, but she thinks Debbie weighs less than she did when she was sprawled across Lou’s chest weeks ago—certainly weighs less than she  _should_. Swallows thick to think about what the last month has been like to Debbie, shifts away from what it’s been like for herself. Tries to shake off the nagging feeling in the bottom of her belly; the one asking what she’s going to do if Debbie tells her she doesn’t want  _this_. Tries to prepare herself for  _when_  Debbie tells her she doesn’t want this. Does her best to tread lightly—soft steps that don’t disturb the precious cargo in her arms—up the spiral stone stairs to the landing under her own rooms. Through the door with warm light bleeding out the gap at the bottom, into the little room she hasn’t entered in years. The room she grew up in. Where she learned to watch time, to read, to not play with matches when she was distracted by the sunrise spilling in from outside because burnt fingertips really do hurt like a bitch.

She’d all but forgotten just how much the blankets on the bed feel like clouds in their tones of ivory, against the turquoise walls. All but forgotten how soft the light that filters in through the actual clouds outside the windows, is. Resists the urge to stay, to stand guard over Debbie while she sleeps because watching her feels like an invasion and she has things to take care.

Slips from the room, door ajar, back up the stairs.   
Slips through the lines that grow just a little wider in the hours leading up to  _midnight_.  
Slips through the delineations that take her from soft and warm to smoky and dim.  
Sidles up to the bar, adjusts the collar of her shirt.

“Double bourbon, Blanton’s. Neat, please.”

The order gets the attention she was looking for from one stool over—a surprised turn of the head, eyes raking up and down and getting caught in her cleavage before settling on the lips she painted a deep red before leaving her rooms.

“Claude Becker, I presume?”

She rolls the sleeves of her shirt up above her forearms, leans deliberately to retrieve her drinks when it arrives, makes sure her  _mark_  is visible when she downs it in two swallows. His eyes go wide.

“You’re—”  
“I am.”

And his eyes turn hungry. Sweep over her curves again and Lou feels her skin crawl just a little. Has to clench her jaw to keep her lip from curling in disgust. Cuts to the chase before the urge to mar his jawline gets any stronger.

“I know a  _friend_  of yours.”  
“Really? And why haven’t they introduced us yet?”  
“Deborah Ocean mean much to you?”

The smug sheen in his eyes breaks. She revels in it.

“Deborah Ocean?”  
“Yes. I think you know her quite well. Brilliant, mischievous, beautiful—ringing any bells yet?”

He swallows and tries to square his shoulders. Grabs Lou’s arm just below her  _mark_.  
  
“I don’t think I know what you’re talking about.”  
“I think you know  _exactly_  what I’m talking about.” She pulls her arm from his grip, distain bleeding through her words. “I think you knew exactly what you were doing—think you were fine with being the reason she ended. And I think, wait, no, I  _know_  that it didn’t work.”

“And what else do you think you  _know_?”  
  
“I think I know that you know exactly who I am. I think I know that you’re never going to touch time ever again.” He doesn’t get the chance to respond. Lou is on her feet, turning to vanish into the crowd. Turns back momentarily to make sure her point is made. “I’ll force the issue if you force my hand.”

 

*

 

Debbie’s eyes snap open.

In a room she doesn’t recognize.  
Blankets that aren’t hers, soft as they may be.  
Alone.

Remembers the previous hours in a rush and steadies herself remembering curling up with her head in Lou’s lap when the tears started to blur her vision and she needed to keep reading. Read through her mother being pushed into a bend by an associate when a job went wrong, falling out the other opening they'd created that sent her off a twentieth story balcony. No wonder her father had turned so cold. No wonder he’d stopped bending altogether.

Read through Danny all but vanishing into thin air. It was comforting on some level to know that there’s even speculation about where he went up  _there_ , wherever she  _is_  now. That not even dead philosophers and deities and prophets understand all of the mechanics of what’s happened to the two—three—four souls that have ever fallen into the gaps in time they’ve created.

Must have fallen asleep at some point. Lou must have brought her here, and then—well, she isn’t sure where Lou went.

 

She treads lightly, silently up the spiralling stairs, feet bare against the stone. Remembers the room Lou led her out of being at the very top and figures that’s as good a place as any to begin.

The door is open, the room is empty. She takes in the space itself for the first time, distracted as she was by the taste of  _Lou_  earlier.

The light filtering in through the chiffon curtains is delicate, mediated by the velvet panels hanging on the walls between the over-sized windows. Closet doors hang open, silks and velvets and leather hanging inside. Debbie runs her fingers along the shoulders of the shirts and jackets as she circles the room. Stills in front of one of the windows. She can’t see what Lou sees—can’t see everything as it slots together; can’t see beyond herself; but sees the way _she_ slots into time. Sees where her birth fell into the dying lineage of her family; the way her bends rippled out to affect the world around her; where she almost fell into the same place as Danny; the moment Lou pulled her out.

And for a moment she can’t breathe.  
Can’t fathom all of the things Lou risked to have her there.  
Doesn’t know how to make Lou understand she  _wants_  to be there with every fibre of herself.

Finds a book with a brown-paper cover sitting on the seat of a plush armchair tucked into one corner of the room. Flips it open to poetry filling the pages; spiky cursive and pencil sketches, and dog-eared corners filling the margins, a pencil tucked into the back cover.

Finds the page with the most annotation and starts to read; can’t keep her fingers from gripping the pencil and filling in the background with faint outlines of wings made of feathers made of wax and burning-down candles and wiry-muscled arms and doesn’t startle when the door opens Lou walks in with a cigarette burning between her lips.

“Are you even allowed to smoke here?”  
Lou winks, puts it out in an ashtray on the windowsill. “Snooping?”  
“Maybe just a little.”  
“I brought you something.”

She digs into her pockets and holds something out for Debbie to take and it isn’t until it’s almost in Debbie hand that she realizes  _what_. A watch. Danny’s watch. The watch she stole from him and he stole back from her for the entire time he spent teaching her to bend time and scheme and take up the family legacy. The watch with an understated face and a smooth leather band and Danny’s insignia engraved into the back and she’s ready to cry for the second time in a day and would really rather not. Lets Lou buckle the watch onto her wrist, steps as close to Lou as she can; flips open the book to the page she’s been drawing and starts to speak.

 _“The smoke in my bedroom which is always burning—”_ ghosts a caress to Lou’s waist. “— _worsens you, motorcycle Icarus—_ ” leans closer-still to whisper in Lou’s ear. “— _you are black and leathery and lean and you cannot distinguish between sex and nicotine // anytime—"_  Flicks out her tongue to trace the shell of Lou’s ear. "— _It's all one thing for you_  —" Debbie’s voice falls over her in crests and dips; her fingers stroke over Lou's cheekbones; her words breathed off of her tongue, over Lou’s lips. "— _All part of that grimy flight on wings axlegreased_ —" 

Lou cuts Debbie off. _"—without wings, but burning anyways,"_ keeps her from continuing, pressing their mouths together. Parting her lips, slipping her tongue into Debbie's mouth. Tastes once—twice—a deep exhale—Debbie wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her flush, curves pressing into Lou in ways that have the poetry she’s had committed to memory for decades resonating deep in her belly. She’s had the words committed to memory for decades—she’s never had anybody else pour them out over her. She thinks she could listen to Debbie recite all of her favourites—even the ones that she’s read so many times they’ve become a part of her DNA—and it would feel like the first time all over again.

Debbie has one hand in Lou’s hair; tangling platinum blond strands.   
Her other hands drifts;  
fingers flit across cheekbones;  
drag over her jawline;  
trace the dips of her collarbones.  
Down to palm a breast;  
  
down further over the curve of her waist, pressing into the way the flesh yields to her hand; the way Lou gasps into her mouth when blunt nails scratch low on her stomach, fingers fiddling with the button of her jeans. Lou’s spine goes rigid, and her fingers go stiff where they rest on Debbie’s hips and Debbie pulls back; tries to meet Lou’s eyes; can’t.

“Lou?”

Lou won’t meet Debbie’s gaze. Flexes her fingers and tries to step away, caught by Debbie’s arm still around her waist.

“Baby?”  
“I don’t—I haven’t—I’ve—”

And it takes Debbie a solid minute to put the pieces together because she’s caught up in the way Lou seems to have curled in on herself. _Herself_. It hits Debbie all at once. She tightens the arm around Lou, pulls her in as close as she can get her, lets the _soft_ that she tends to burry bleed out in her words.

“Hasn’t anybody ever _touched_ you before?”

Lou doesn’t make a sound beyond a slow exhale. Debbie wouldn’t even have felt the slight shake of her head if she wasn’t pressed right up against her and her heart cracks just a little. She loosens her arm, rests both hands lightly on Lou’s hips instead, traces invisible circles against the black denim of her pants.

“Is this okay?”

Lou burrows into Debbie’s shoulder, presses herself against Debbie this time, licks out—lazy—when she can’t quell the desire to taste. She’s been watching the world for half of forever; she knows it all works, knows what makes her own body rise and fall. Is overwhelmed with the idea that somebody else would _want_ to do that for her—make her _feel_. Nods her head. Finds her words.

“ _Please_ Debs.”

“What about this?” Teeth graze down Lou’s neck, nibble on a spot that catches the _yes_ in her throat; reduces her to another nod.  
“This?” Nimble fingers work the buttons on Lou’s shirt open, flick the font-clasp of her bra; thumbs circle her nipples, work them to pebbles.

“Don’t stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE because I forgot when I originally posted this chapter *facepalm* : the poetry excerpts in this part are from Hamlet (as mentioned in the story), and Gwendolyn MacEwan, “Poem Improvised Around a First Line.”


	6. Don't You Know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes her a minute to realize that Debbie’s brown eyes have opened,  
> are looking back at her with a streak of mirth.
> 
> Lou’s been caught; blatantly; unabashedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, due to a severe winter storm my department was shut down today, and I—a grown adult—had a snow day and got paid to do whatever I pleased... which was WILD because we get a lot of snow where I am every year and things pretty much never shut down... but I digress. 
> 
> This finale is short and it is fluffy and I am a sap if there ever was one  
> and I hope all of you like it.
> 
> Thank you to every. single. person. who has taken this gander into the world of writing fantasy with me, and dealt with me flailing through something that is totally out of my usual comfort zone. 
> 
> I hope you've all enjoyed the ride as much as I have <3

She’s been imagining—dreaming of—waiting on this version of her.  
Hips between her thighs;  
fingerprints grazing over ribs, breasts, hips, _lower_.

Unrelenting and insatiable and bending to each gasp-sigh-moan that tumbles from the tip of her tongue.

Debbie’s underneath her, on her back, against the plush cushions of the couch. In a show of dominance, Lou pressed her down and climbed on top of her and the control was short-lived when Debbie fingers threaded into Lou’s hair, and pulled her forwards, tugged her head to the side, latched onto the point where she could feel Lou’s pulse speed up under her mouth.  

And a gentle touch that almost tickles a little bit whispers up the insides of her legs and drags through her wet heat and a fingers slips inside her and her eyes flutter closed.

“Feel good, baby?”  
“Please don’t stop.”

Two fingers inside her and Debbie’s other hand clearing Lou’s hair away from her face, thumb tracing her jawline, lightly across her shut eyelids, her cheekbones and—

“Look at me, baby.”

Lou’s lost in the haze that Debbie’s creating; blinks open her over-sized blues to find Debbie’s pupils blown wide, hand falling away from Lou’s face to grip her hip, guide her movements as she grinds down onto the fingers crooked into the slick mess between her legs.

The haze falls down all around her when she falls apart with Debbie’s name on her lips; blinks through it and presses Debbie into the cushions and runs her tongue—broad and rough—up the length of Debbie’s throat while her fingers work on learning all the things that make her body give way under her. Tugs her hair and bites her shoulder and sucks a mark over the indents left by her teeth because she can hear the way Debbie’s breathing picks up when she plays just a little dirty, takes the carefully constructed control out of her hands and _pushes_ her towards the edge.

Lou hasn’t spent lifetime after lifetime watching and waiting and waiting on _this_ moment—praying for _this_ moment, hoping for _this_ moment—to have not come away with a trick or two that even Deborah Ocean doesn’t expect.

 

*

 

Lou slides the _turndial_ into place at the end of the _shift_ , straightens up, turns to face out the window with the muted light of midnight coming through, leans a shoulder against the glass and turns her gaze towards Debbie, asleep on the couch, hair fanned across the cushion, spilling over the edge, wearing a white silk shirt pilfered from Lou’s side of the closet.

She’s got Lou’s favourite poetry collection tucked into her chest again, too.

Lou’s been watching her read it over and over again, charcoal pencil held loosely, filling in the margins and spaces between the lines, at least the ones that Lou hasn’t already filled with spiky cursive, with lines joining into motorcycle spokes and bourbon bottles and smouldering cigarettes.

_“The words on the pages taste like you when I read them.”  
“Read them to me again, then.”_

She’ll steal it back from her eventually—read it again for herself.  
For now, reading it in the way Debbie’s eyebrows furrow and her nose crinkles and her pupils go wide is a new way of _feeling_  it altogether that Lou can’t get enough of.

She keeps asking Debbie if she’d rather sleep downstairs, in a bed, than on the couch.  
_“Rather be here, with you.”_ She always says it fighting back a yawn. Always asleep almost right away.

She won’t age there, with Lou. Outside of space and time. But she’s human nonetheless, sleep and food are all still par for the course.

It takes her a minute to realize that Debbie’s brown eyes have opened,  
are looking back at her with a streak of mirth.  
Lou’s been caught; blatantly; unabashedly.

“You’re beautiful, you know."

**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Comments? General Trivia Facts?


End file.
